Thursday, December 28, 2017

Toe nail is not food

I have what one podiatrist described as "the worst feet ever seen". It's not like I set out to do it—it happened due to pre-natal neglect—but my feet are flat, splayed and with toe nails sunk deep into the bed.

They're hideous. But I'm fat so I rarely see them unless sitting down bare footed with my feet out.

I was seated and had opened up the lower door of the hutch where the nine maturing chicks live so they could dart out and have some grass time.

One of them, then another, came over and had a go at the big right toe nail.

I don't blame them—the nail is thick, twice that of a normal nail, but sunk deep in the bed like the dead sea with hills of toe flesh surrounding it. Because I have OCPD I pick at them and rip off chunks leaving an uneven surface of broken, healing nail that looks akin to breaking pack ice.

To a chick the tip of an upthrust nail chunk looked like food. It was not. Its friend tried it as well. 

That's the challenge of me; to live in a body destined to die in infancy but thwarted by medicine and luck (for me). I'm mobile—I can walk, it just hurts to do it—and while short with hands and fingers afflicted by bone fail, medication and injury I can pick stuff up and do everything a normal person can. I just do it in pain and with discomfort and use a blend of techniques to cope; I put my socks on whilst braced in a doorway. I'm not sure how I'd manage it if I lived in a non-doorway place like a cave or tent.

That challenge is made harder with the mental dross of PTSD, anxiety, depression, OCPD and some other shit I can't be fucked to rattle off; needless to say the filling out of a new patient form at a clinic can take a while. 

But I'm still here, shakily mobile and wobbly in the head and tum, and with feet, that to a chicken, look like a treat. 

The lesson learned here is "wear protection". 

Life is basically a series of accidents where you try to deal with those accidents and avoid future ones. For me it's to recognise my hideous feet while repellent to humans are delicious to chickens and that footwear is needed for next time.

The last thing I need is to go into ER with an infected foot then lamely say a chicken ate it.

UPDATE: Three days later. The hutch was opened to let them roam. I did not have crocs on. They came for the right toe nail once again. That's a shame on me for not crocing up before the gate was opened. Even after past me warned now me this would happen if I didn't. Stupid recent then me.

UPDATE2: It's New Year's Eve. I got some food stuck in my hour glass joint spot of my tummy—the hour glass shape caused by my deactivated lapband   As I stood with my head hung near the back tap with care one of the roving chicks had a go at my fucking toenails. I ended up balancing on one foot like a crane to keep one foot away from them as I upchucked my dinner. What's the bet they eat the upchuck?

No comments:

Post a Comment

No comments needed, really.

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.